Behind his mask
Is interested in discovering what drives others
to seek power at work or in love.
He may be ready.
Ready to delve into the gnarlish
world of hidden, forlorn feelings.
He knows that is the place that he often avoids.
Now, however, he is willing to overcome
his resistance. And yours, even if you’re not
comfortable with the thought
of what you both might encounter there in those
Cthonic gated communities. Those catacombs in which
To wander among the ghosts of shadows.
Copses of corpses vertical and murmuring
Through their postures about ancient
Crannies of the kundalini where the quiet
Is a violin bereft of bow. From the bonfire
Of bovine bones rises as vapors
above the mansions that house our fathers and
mothers. Whose vapors drift as dreams
unharnessed and hateful about not
Healing. Which every morning settles on manicured lawns
Beneath which roots itch: each of them, every one.
Dew of which dreams make the grass blades pretty with
Fractals of projective fantasies.
He/You are on the right track. Which zeroes
The X/Y axis that paradoxes the paradigm
Into quadrants of skillsets to plant power and
harvest power. Afore-mentioned
torque of agriculture.
Into the red clay and piedmont
sand of his nativity. Seed of a birth which
meets you at the cross and throws dice for
the soul’s own garments.
Which lie strewn about the scene.
Grief of which peels the bulbed onions of eyes from
which all bitter tears flow. Which flow creates the rivers
of movies that spool the mind,
its ruts and tunnels runnelling through maps of sadness.
And joys. Racked up in surrenders diasporic in scope
And scale. Big ol’ sticky face, betrayed by
infantile oralities that march as toy soldiers in the dreams
Of an abandoned boy:
what goes in, what goes out.
He will surely feel relief
once you know the truth.
No triumph in it. No defeat.
He holds a palm, into which he stares
A stigmata, to his heart.
As he fears the pulsing orb not up
To the things that must be known,
Much less the things that must be done.